


Muse

by Anonymous



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Writer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier is a well-known novelist; Erik is his muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in school the other day and it took off from there. Italics indicate thoughts.

He stares at the vertical line flickering on the screen, the blank document mocking him. He has the concepts in his head (of course he does; they **come from** his head) but when he shifts his focus to them, they slip lightly away. They’re vague and intangible, and it makes him wonder if he even knows his own mind at all.

He pauses, annoyed. A simple case if writer’s block shouldn’t be this much of a problem. He’s Charles fucking Xavier, for crying out loud. Countless times, he’s been told that he’s nothing short of brilliant, and he knows it’s true. His novels are famed for their underlying symbolism and Charles is renowned for his subtle political messages. His fans call him an inspiration or a visionary. His critics call him presumptuous and manipulative. Everyone agrees that he is a clever, crafty man, and why should he doubt it? And yet…

He closes his eyes and tries to calm his mind. He raises a hand to his temple and lets himself slip into that particularly inspiring state of semi-consciousness. If only he could remember his dream! It was perfect—so sharply, achingly perfect—and he **needs** to write it down! He can’t let it fade. If it fades, he’s sure it will be gone forever, and he doesn’t know if he could bear that.

He can’t see the shapes and contours of it, but he remembers the way it felt—so different from anything he’s ever felt in his waking life. It was so violent and fiercely, darkly sweet. In this drifting state, he can easily recall the intensity of it, the way it left him at a loss for air, how he’d woken to the sound of his own gasping…

He raises his other hand, presses those fingers to his temple, too. He tips his head back, presses deep like he thinks he can push the echoes of the memory out of his head and into solid form.

He’s starting to make out the shapes of the dream now, though they’re blurred and they wobble and swim in his mind’s eye. He lets himself sink deeper into the scene, until he can touch it, taste it, smell it. There is a dark sky above and black water all around him. His mouth tastes of salt and his cheeks sting pleasantly from the cold sea air.

Slowly, the image of a man forms in the water before him, tall and slim, but far from lanky. Muscles cling tightly to bone, wiry, compact strands and coils, taught as bowstrings. Charles moves one hand from his head and snatches up a pen and a notepad. The details are coming faster now and he begins to scrawl across the paper, eyes still shut tight. Skin forms over tissue, not quite as pale as Charles’ own. It’s etched with lines around the mouth, furrows and grooves adorning the forehead. The structure of the face is pronounced: a flat chin, angular jaw and prominent cheekbones. The bridge of the nose is straight and even, and the lips are thin, possibly compressed in concentration.

Charles looks into the eyes, and that’s when his breath catches. This must be what caused his gasping. The eyes seem to shift color, from blue to green to grey, but they are always deep, sharp, lit too bright, as if by a lightning flare. They are dangerous eyes, a killer’s eyes, and they are so, so beautiful. Charles wishes he could paint those eyes, keep them with him always. He has to dream of this man again, has to beg him for his story. He will be the man’s biographer, his confidant, his lover. Nothing will part them, if only the man will let him stay. Charles wants to ask him for his name. Of course, all he has to do is to think it, and the answer comes to him at once. _Erik_. The man’s name is Erik.

Charles tries to push his thoughts to Erik. _What is your story? Who are you? Where do you come from? What made you what you are today? What lit your eyes up like that?_ Images begin to flash before him, and he almost makes it out, almost understands, but—

“ **Charles**!” He opens his eyes and his editor, Moira, is standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and tense.

“What is it?” he snaps. _I almost understood_ , his mind wails.

“Look. You’ve gone off the paper.”

He shifts his gaze and sees that the words have flown off the notepad and sprawled out over the surface of his desk. As his eyes trace them down, they get heavier and heavier, until they’re practically carved into the wood.

“Amazing!” His voice comes out thin and slightly hoarse, little more than a whisper.

Moira just raises an eyebrow and when she speaks, her tone is amused, exasperated, and imploring. “Come on. You’ve got a signing to get to, remember?”

“Right, right. I’ll get ready. Just give me a moment.” She leaves him, knowing not to argue, and he closes his eyes once more and tries to make out his surroundings. _I’ll come back to you_ , he promises, and though he hasn’t had enough time to shift the image into focus, the thinks Erik graces him with a curt nod.

Reluctantly, Charles opens his eyes and brings himself back to his study. Still, he’s in high spirits, smiling and sighing as Moira leads him to the car. And when he peers through the rain-covered window, he can almost feel the pull of the dark and the water, can almost feel Erik calling out to him. _Soon_ , he promises.


End file.
